


The Wreckage Of Your Sleight Of Hand

by queenofkadara



Series: Banal'halam: Solas & Elia Lavellan [13]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blackwall is a cinnamon roll who deserves better and I'm sorry, F/M, Just a lot of sadness, Love Triangles, POV Blackwall, Pining, So much angst, everyone is sad, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: Solas and Elia Lavellan are two matched halves of a lover’s knot. It’s a truth Blackwall has always known, so he hides his own love like a secret, even though it pains him.When Solas abandons Elia in the wake of Corypheus’s defeat, Blackwall is there to pick up the shattered pieces of her heart. A year later, when Elia approaches him with eyes glowing with promise, he eagerly offers her his own heart.It’s only later, while watching tears pour down her face in her sleep, that Blackwall realizes that loving Elia Lavellan comes with a terrible cost.*********************In other words: not only are Lavellan and Solas miserable, but Blackwall is miserable too. Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This work is as described: a Lavellan who is in love with Solas, but with a side-ship of Blackwall after Solas leaves. I'm not even sure who will particularly like this work - if you like Blackwall, you might hate me for hurting him, and if you're a hardcore Solasmancer then you won't like the Blackwallavellan in this work, but... well, this is my major headcanon for my primary Lavellan, and I had to share.
> 
> If you want a happy ending for Blackwall, please check out [my series for my secondary Lavellan.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1010943)

Collateral damage: is that all I am?  
Adrift in the wreckage of your sleight of hand?  
Is there a reason why I can’t heal?  
Hate everything that you made me feel, but I still love you

Collateral damage: is that all you are?  
Just bones grown old around a broken heart?  
Is there a reason why you can’t heal?  
Hate everything that he made you feel, but I still love you

\- ["Collateral Damage", by LEVV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBhX1tYGBp4)

*********************

Her lips part on a soft gasp. “Please,” she whispers.

He runs a soothing palm across her bare belly. “Elia,” he breathes.

“ _Please,_ ” she moans, and clenches her fingers in the sheets.

He slides his hand along the length of her arm and squeezes her hand. “Elia, wake up.” 

“Please, no,” she whimpers. He can hear her teeth grinding together, and he squeezes her hand more urgently. “Elia, love, wake up.” 

She sobs in her sleep, a heartbroken little sound, and his heart aches in sympathy as he shakes her shoulder. “ _Elia!_ ”

Finally her eyes snap open, and she gasps. “Don’t go!” she cries. 

Her gaze is fixed on his face, her eyes bright and wet with tears, and he cups her cheek as she grabs convulsively for his wrist. “It’s all right, love. I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. 

But Blackwall sees the shadows in her turquoise eyes. He’s not the man her sleep-fogged mind is begging to stay. 

********************

Blackwall clearly remembers the moment he first let her slip away.

It was soon after they’d arrived at Skyhold. She stood beside him on the ramparts gazing at the snow-capped mountains. Strands of her short raven-black hair were whipping in the breeze, reminding him of the way her hair lifted with lightning in the midst of battle, and he couldn’t help but stare at her beauty. 

That lovely smile lit her face as she turned to catch him staring, but she made no mention of his gaze. “Well? What do you think of our fortifications?” she asked. 

He nodded approvingly. “All the way up here in these mountains? We’ll see Corypheus coming from miles away.” 

“Oh good,” she replied. “That’ll give me plenty of time to master the art of dragon-taming. I’d like to steal that beast right out from under him.” 

Blackwall chuckled at her jest, then marvelled when she didn’t immediately make her excuses to leave. In fact, the Lady Lavellan deigned to talk to him for some time; they drifted idly from one side of the ramparts to the other, eventually settling with their elbows resting on the wall as they overlooked the courtyard. He stared helplessly at her as she talked, his heart feeling full of hot water from the warmth of her attention and the spice of her jokes. 

“That’s why my clan don’t keep snoufleurs for pets anymore. Too great a risk, you see.” She chuckled, then looked down into the courtyard again. “And as for the, um… the…” 

Curious as to what had distracted her, Blackwall turned to follow her gaze, and immediately he saw what had caught her attention: Solas was approaching the main gate slowly, his hands clasped easily behind his back. He stopped beside one grand support pillar, then reached out and slowly ran his palm along the bricks. 

Lavellan returned her gaze to Blackwall’s face. “I’m sorry, Ser Blackwall, where were we?” 

Her eyes were more brilliant than ever, and two small spots of pink had appeared on her cheeks. Blackwall swallowed the clever response he’d lined up. A simple soul he might be, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. “It was nothing, my lady. I’ve taken enough of your time. We should return to our duties.” 

Elia’s eyebrows lifted slightly with surprise, but she agreed without hesitation. “Of course,” she said. “We have a new home to build. Urgent tasks await; I must ask Vivienne for decorating tips.” She smiled cheekily, and though he smiled in return at her joke, his heart fell that little bit more as she walked away from him without a backward glance. 

In the days and weeks that passed, Blackwall watched as the Inquisitor spent more and more of her free time in the rotunda. He would stop to speak with Varric, and he would hear the two elven mages discussing spirits and demons and whatever other magical thing Solas was always on about. 

Soon, Solas began joining the Inquisitor at the dining table during the evening meal, eschewing his usual solitary supper for her company instead. Eventually Blackwall noticed that neither Inquisitor nor apostate would appear for dinner half the time, and he scolded himself for being so smitten as to notice such things. 

The most painful thing he noticed was the day that Solas first emerged from Lavellan’s quarters. Blackwall always rose before the sun, and thus was eating his porridge in the main hall when the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters opened that fateful morning. Blackwall turned to look, and the greeting at the tip of his tongue abruptly died as Solas slipped through the door and gently closed it behind him, looking as inconspicuous and mild-mannered as ever. 

To Blackwall’s surprise and mild dismay, Solas approached the dining table and took a seat beside him. “Blackwall,” he said politely, and nodded graciously to the serving girl who hurried over with a platter of toast. 

Blackwall nodded slightly stiffly. “Solas.” He watched as Solas selected one slice of buttered toast with a murmur of thanks. 

Solas took a small bite of toast, then chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “Tell me, Warden, what methods has your Order approved for the slaying of archdemons? History tells of these creatures being notoriously difficult to kill, and I am curious what secret knowledge the Wardens have hoarded over the ages to prepare them for such a threat.”

And thus began one of the most uncomfortable breakfast conversations that Blackwall ever suffered. He answered with the small truths the real Blackwall had shared - some of which involved a genuine _I-don’t-know_ \- and otherwise did his best to bluff and dissemble. Solas nodded thoughtfully and asked yet more questions about archdemons, and though the mage was polite, Blackwall couldn’t shake the creeping sensation of something _more_ beneath his questions than his placid expression revealed. 

A painful ten minutes later, the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters opened again. Lady Lavellan emerged and drifted toward them, looking lovelier than ever, and sat on Blackwall’s other side. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said cheerfully, and her eyes slid from his face to Solas’s. 

Blackwall stood from the table. He didn’t want to know what kind of look was passing between them. “My lady,” he said graciously as he replaced his chair. “I must be going. Training with the Chargers this morning. Solas,” he added as an afterthought. 

Solas nodded politely. “Thank you for the conversation. It was most informative.” 

Blackwall didn’t answer. He nodded stiffly, gave Lady Lavellan a respectful half-bow, and left the hall, but not without a quick final glance over his shoulder: Solas had already filled his vacated seat, his face wreathed in a broader smile than Blackwall had ever seen as the Inquisitor playfully stole the half-eaten toast from his fingers and took a bite. 

From that day on, Solas and Elia were inseparable. Their unequivocal oneness was not an obvious thing heralded with open flirtation or affectionate caresses, but Blackwall saw it in the softness of Lavellan’s eyes when she looked at Solas, and the intensity of his focus when he returned her gaze. Blackwall was the shield guarding the Inquisitor’s front, but Solas was always at her back, a whisper of a step behind her, his shoulders looming over her protectively and his voice murmuring oh-so-wisely in her ear.

In the months that would pass, Blackwall often wondered how different things might have been if he’d spoken up on the ramparts and told the Inquisitor how he felt. But the past was gone, and there was nothing he could do but add his unspoken words to his already-mountainous pile of regrets. 

******************

He clearly remembers the day he realized Elia and Solas had split up. 

He was oiling his armour in the courtyard when the Inquisitor and her party returned from the Forbidden Oasis. Lavellan and Solas wore identical stony expressions, while Cassandra looked like thunder and Cole looked more forlorn than usual. 

Blackwall watched with mounting confusion as Elia turned on her heel and headed for the main hall without a word to the others. As Cassandra strode past, he beckoned politely for her to approach. “Seeker, is something wrong? Are we in trouble?” 

“No more than usual,” she replied brusquely, then made to continue on her way, but Cole drifted over before she could leave. 

“Sore, sundered, sick at heart. He broke her, broke _them,_ but he didn’t want to. So why?” he asked plaintively.

“Stop gossiping, Cole,” Cassandra scolded. “You’re worse than Dorian.” 

“Wait,” Blackwall said slowly. The meaning of Cole’s gibberish was coming together gradually. “Does he mean… Solas and Lady Lavellan?”

Cassandra pursed her lips, then nodded stiffly. 

Blackwall’s jaw dropped. As much as he hated to admit it, everyone knew that Elia and Solas were matched halves of a lover’s knot. They even behaved like each other sometimes, their personalities blending together as time went on; Lavellan was more serene and measured than the wide-eyed mage he’d met in the Hinterlands, and Solas’s characteristic aloofness was softened slightly with moments of lighthearted humour. He even played along with Sera’s cheeky remarks at times.

“He’s been alone for so very long. She fixes fractures, fills his holes, makes _him_ whole. So why?” Cole stared at Blackwall as though he had the answers, and before Blackwall could stop and think, his mouth ran away like an undisciplined horse. “Because he’s a fucking idiot,” he blurted. 

Cassandra scowled more deeply. “Careful, Rainier. You wear your heart too much on your sleeve.” 

Blackwall had the good grace to blush as Cassandra and Cole walked away. He resumed oiling his armour with a churning mind. There were important things to think about - when Corypheus would next attack, for instance, as Morrigan didn’t believe he would pause to lick his wounds after the defeat at the Arbor Wilds - but the thoughts that tumbled through Blackwall’s mind were of Elia. It was a whirling mix of disbelief at Solas’s stupidity, anger on Elia’s behalf, and sheer confusion. What in the Maker’s green earth could have spurred this split? Just yesterday while passing the rotunda, he’d seen Solas lifting his hand to brush the bangs from Elia’s forehead. He’d seen the tenderness in the apostate’s gaze as he scanned her face. It seemed that Cole was right; there was some part of Solas that only Elia could reach. Why would any sane man ever give that up? 

Blackwall gave his head a little shake. It wasn’t his business. It had been a year since he’d watched Elia walk away from him on the ramparts; if anyone was the fucking idiot, it was he for caring so much after all this time. 

And yet, despite his determination to shunt the matter aside, something new was blooming in his chest, an opportunistic and shameful growth that was unquenchable as veilfire: a budding of hope.

**********************

He remembers Lavellan’s grief much too clearly. 

At first, it was subtle. In many ways, her loss of Solas was as quiet as their love had been. In the wake of Corypheus’s defeat, she continued the Inquisition’s work with her usual determination. She took up the dragon hunt with renewed zeal, much to Bull’s delight, and they travelled every corner of the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast and the Emerald Graves to bring aid and resources in the wake of the war. Lavellan sat with him and the others every night at supper, and she played wicked grace with them most evenings. If Blackwall was completely honest, he wholeheartedly enjoyed the increased frequency of her company. 

The problem was Cole.

Shortly after Solas’s disappearance, Cole began following Elia everywhere. It was hard to notice him doing it because Cole was _always_ hard to notice, but Blackwall couldn’t seem to have a conversation with the Lady alone without Cole’s vague and dreamlike voice interjecting. 

One day, Blackwall brought it up with Elia. “Cole seems very, er, fond of you,” he hedged. Cole’s omnipresence made him downright uneasy, but he didn’t want to criticize; he was well aware of Elia’s affection for the spirit-boy. 

Sure enough, Elia tilted her head in confusion. “He’s my friend,” she replied, as though this was obvious. 

“You have many friends, my lady,” Blackwall said carefully. “If ever… that is… We’re here, you know. All of us. If you need anything.” 

Elia smiled faintly. “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m fine, truly.”

Suddenly Cole spoke up. “It crushes, crushing, crushed by a mask that grows heavier every day. She walks in dreams like he taught her, but only traces of him remain. It hurts, but that’s how she knows it was real.” 

Blackwall gazed in horror at Cole as Elia laughed weakly. “Wonderful, Cole. Thank you for that.” She sighed, then gave Blackwall a wan smile. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, then gently took Cole’s elbow and led the spirit-boy away. 

To Blackwall’s great dismay, things only got worse as time went on. As the Inquisitor’s constant travels became less urgent, some of her steel-strong sense of purpose seemed to wilt, and she was often seen wafting aimlessly through the halls of Skyhold in her free time. Eventually she and Cole took to visiting the abandoned rotunda daily as if in vigil, and Blackwall felt too uncomfortable to suggest that this behaviour might be unhealthy. 

Weeks bled into months, and Elia stopped trying to hide her grief. Her face fell into an emotionless mask, her posture growing hunched as though quashed by the weight of her loss. Dorian and Cassandra whispered worriedly about her when they thought no one was listening, and Cole never, _ever_ left her side. And Blackwall felt horribly guilty for being even a little bit selfishly hopeful. 

********************

Eventually, slowly, as the seasons changed and the world began to resume some sense of normalcy, so too did Elia. 

Cole stopped following her everywhere, which Blackwall took as a very good sign. Her spark and her smile re-emerged from the hollow-eyed shell of her grief, though she never quite shook off the faint sense of cool serenity that she’d adopted from Solas. She resumed working closely with Josephine in matters of peacekeeping and policy, and she took on some of Leliana’s old duties of sorting through intelligence with Harding and Charter, with Varric’s sardonic guidance. She played daily games of chess with Cullen and Dorian, and she came to the tavern once or twice a week to share a drink with friends. Blackwall found her there more often than not, glass in hand and a smile at the corners of her perfect almond-shaped eyes as she listened to the Chargers’ witty repartee. 

He remembers with perfect clarity the moment they _almost_ kissed. 

It was the night that Josephine had arranged a feast to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Corypheus’s defeat. The Inquisitor was kept entertained by a rotating cycle of companions, but to Blackwall’s surprise and pleasure, she spent most of the night at his side, eating and drinking and even dancing to the lively tunes of a troupe of Orlesian bards. 

As the evening’s revelry transitioned from merry to mellow, the Lady Lavellan turned to him, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with wine. “Things are growing quiet here. Shall we adjourn to a more promising setting, perhaps?” 

Her cheeky voice was slightly slurred and utterly charming, and Blackwall was powerless to do anything but agree. They left a snoring Bull and Sera under the table and snuck off to the wine cellar to taste their way through the Inquisition’s rarer stock. 

Blackwall sipped from a bottle of West Hill brandy as Lavellan regaled him with one of Dorian’s more outrageous escapades during a recent trip to Val Royeaux. She could barely speak from laughing, and Blackwall watched with unabashed adoration as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. 

Eventually Lavellan’s laughter quieted, and her grin softened as she caught sight of his expression. “Blackwall? What is it?” she asked softly. 

He shook his head slightly, unable to tear his gaze from her face. “It’s nothing, my lady. It’s just… You’re lovely when you laugh. It’s a pleasure to see a smile on your face.” 

The smile in question lifted her lips anew. “I aim only to entertain,” she quipped. “If you’re pleased, then it’s _my_ pleasure.” 

_My pleasure._ Her words hung in the cool cellar air like the finest perfume, and suddenly Blackwall’s spinning mind couldn’t focus on anything but the very idea of _her_ pleasure. He stared helplessly at her, his mind running wildly amok as the humour faded from her face, leaving a warm expectancy in its place. 

Her eyes were large, deep turquoise pools of wisdom and heat, and he couldn’t look away. His heart was thundering in his ears, blood and alcohol racing through his veins, and suddenly he was both elated and terrified. Her stare, her bold and burning _stare_ was blazing through him, making it seem like everything he’d wanted for so long was close at hand. Her fingers were inches from his, her face so close he could see the flecks of forest-green in her irises, and he’d never wanted to kiss a woman this badly in his life. 

He couldn’t do it. Not like this.

His head was spinning with spirits and ale, and he could smell the conscription wine on Elia’s breath. It wasn’t right. He loved Elia Lavellan, had loved her for years, and to waste this shining chance on what could easily be chalked up to a drunken mistake…

Right as he was about to say _something_ to break the tension - what exactly, he wasn’t sure - the Inquisitor spoke first. “Well, Ser Blackwall, though I must thank you for this scenic trip through the wine cellar, I think I should be getting some rest,” she said. 

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. She smiled at him, a sweet little smile that both broke and lifted his heart, then give him a tiny mock bow. “Until tomorrow?” she said.

He nodded politely. “Yes, my lady. I look forward to it.” 

Her answering grin was nearly blinding in its beauty, and then she was gone. 

Blackwall spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning on his simple bed, flip-flopping between congratulating himself for his self-control and berating himself for his idiocy. When Lady Lavellan came to the stables the next afternoon, he could barely stand to look her in the face for awkwardness and painful longing. 

To add insult to injury, the Inquisitor was as lovely and perfectly composed as ever, with no evidence of the previous night’s festivities in her face or manner. “Blackwall,” she said. “I wanted to speak to you about last night.” 

His heart sank as he recognized her warm but professional tone. It seemed that the heat he’d seen in her eyes last night was a trick of the booze after all. 

She cleared her throat quietly before speaking again. “I believe there was a moment, last night, when I… I almost took things too far.” 

Surprised, Blackwall straightened; this was _not_ the speech he was expecting. 

Lavellan continued. “You were quite deeply into your cups, and I believe I almost… well. We’ve been friends for a long time, and I don’t want to take advantage of that. I’d like to apologize-”

“Elia,” he interrupted, and she looked up at him in surprise. In all honesty, he surprised himself; this was the first time in two-plus years that he had called the Lady Lavellan by her first name. 

Then he did the bravest thing he’d ever done during his time with the Inquisition: he reached out and took the Inquisitor’s hand. 

Elia’s eyes widened as he spoke again. “My lady, I… it might not be my place to say, but… I’ve always felt we missed our chance. Ships passing in the night, if you will. But you should know I… if you were willing… I would be thrilled if you’d take advantage.” 

A slow smile lit her face, and she gave a throaty laugh. She took a small step closer to him, and his heart kicked into double-time as she lifted her chin. “Are you propositioning me, Thom?”

 _Thom._ Blackwall had hidden for years from his real name, burying it beneath a more honourable one, but his true name in her sparkling voice was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. He swallowed hard. “Not a proposition,” he replied. “Not _just_ a proposition, at any rate. A long-term proposition with no end-date, maybe…”

Elia laughed again at his clumsy confession of feelings, and the sound was more soft and sultry than a hot summer breeze. Suddenly she was nearly pressed against him, her lips a whisper away from his own. “You can stop talking anytime,” she whispered. 

“Yes, my lady,” he replied eagerly, and then her lips were on his, her fingers on his neck and his hands on her waist, and every moment of waiting was worth it for the joy he took in the silken plumpness of her mouth. 

This is the moment that Blackwall always remembers with utmost, shining clarity: the moment when words were no longer necessary, and his dearest wish came true. He polishes the memory daily until it shines brightly on the stage of his mind. He reminds Elia of this memory when she’s frowning with worry, and the fondness of it chases the shadows from her eyes. 

And on nights when she grinds her teeth and clenches her fists, her slumbering face twisted with despair, he clutches her body and this memory close. He reminds himself that this moment was real, and that dreams are only dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One of my favourite quotes from an episode of Grey's Anatomy features here. Also, credit to Kitzie for a very Thedosian swear that I use.

Blackwall remembers too clearly the moment it started to fall apart. 

He and Elia were in their guest suite at the Winter Palace the night before the Exalted Council. Blackwall was lounging in bed and watching dreamily as Elia floated around getting dressed. It had been four months since he last saw her, four lonely months while he travelled across Ferelden tracking down his surviving men and making amends for his past, and now that they were finally reunited, he wished he could have another day to simply lie here in this ridiculously ornate Orlesian bed with his lady in his arms. 

He sat up against the head of the bed and watched with regret as the long lines of her legs disappeared into her trousers. “You don’t really need to be at the council, do you?” he said. “Stay here with me. They’ll get on without you. It’s not like you’re an important and influential figure in Thedas or something like that.”

He offered her a winning grin, and she shot him a chiding little smile as she drifted over to sit beside him. “And leave Josephine alone to deal with the Arl and the Duke? She would have an aneurysm. I wouldn’t dare.” She leaned in for a kiss, and Blackwall sank happily into the gentle stroke of her tongue, the feel of her hands on his bare chest- 

“Ow.” He pulled away with a wince; Elia had bitten his tongue hard. He gingerly ran his injured tongue along his lower teeth, then smirked at her. “Going to try that blood magic, are you…?” 

His humour wilted abruptly as he examined her face. She was flexing the fingers of her left hand, and her jaw was clenched.

“Elia, what’s wrong?” He shifted closer and slid a concerned hand along her back. This was the second time he’d noticed her clenching her fist. 

She opened her mouth to reply, then hissed with discomfort and rubbed her left palm. “Shit,” she muttered. 

A jolt of alarm stopped his breath for an instant. It was unlike the Lady Lavellan to curse, and his worry intensified as he studied her pursed lips. “Elia…?

“It’s this damn mark,” she exclaimed. “It’s been bothersome, and I don’t know why.” She exhaled sharply, then muttered, “Solas would know what’s going on.” 

Blackwall froze with his hand on her back. She hadn’t spoken Solas’s name since he’d left two years ago. 

She flexed her fingers, then ran her left hand through her hair and looked at him. Immediately her eyebrows lifted apologetically as she caught sight of his face. “It’s nothing,” she hurriedly said. “Really, I’m sure it’s just an annoyance. It’s just been a little sting for the past few months-” 

“Past few _months_?” he interrupted. “Exactly how long has this been going on?” 

She pressed her lips together, then grudgingly admitted, “It started maybe three months ago.” 

Blackwall couldn’t speak for a moment. Her hand had been bothering her for almost the entire time he was gone? They’d exchanged letters every week, and she’d mentioned nothing about her hand. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. He took her hand and gingerly stroked her glowing palm with his thumbs. Maybe he was just imagining it, but the greenish glow seemed sicklier now, a shade more lurid than lush. 

“I didn’t want to ruin your travels,” she replied. Her voice was calm, the earlier edge shaved smooth from her tone, but Blackwall’s nerves jangled as he peered at her palm. He knew nothing about magical injuries, and it was a farce to think he could do anything to help, but still he stared at her hand as though his gaze could wipe it clean.

Her next words mirrored his thoughts with unintentional cruelty. “I didn’t want to tell you about it if you couldn’t do anything to help. I didn’t want to worry you.” Her delivery was soothing and gentle, but the words still struck him like a blow to the chest. He was inadequate, unable to protect the woman he loved, and the one person who _could_ help… 

She lifted her left hand from his fingers and stroked his cheek. “It’s all right, Thom. It’s nothing. I promise.” She leaned in and brushed his lips with a light and tender kiss. 

He snaked an arm around her waist and kissed her back, but the press of her body wasn’t enough to comfort him. He couldn’t help the nagging feeling that this visit to the Winter Palace would bring bad tidings in more ways than one. 

******************

The sting of her livid mark was clearly not nothing, and things deteriorated further as the qunari threat drove them into the eluvian network. 

Lavellan used her anchor to reveal hidden doors behind ancient elven mosaics. They eventually made their way down a dark labyrinth of stairs, and Elia suddenly cried out as her hand flared with a blinding green light. She gritted her teeth, then flung her hand purposefully out towards the small room. 

Instantly the room was illuminated with a green glow so dazzling that Blackwall could feel it on his skin. He strode over to her side and took her arm gently. “Are you-?” 

“I’m all right,” she interrupted. “Let’s take this artifact and go.” 

She was flexing her fingers again, but she shot a surreptitious glance at Bull and Varric, and Blackwall understood; she didn’t want to alarm them, but this only alarmed him more. This was how Elia operated: she minimized her pain to protect her people. She acted as though everything was fine until it suddenly and unequivocally _wasn’t_. Her suffering in the wake of _his_ departure was the most terrible and damning proof of this. 

Blackwall’s incessant current of worry was forgotten for a while as they fought their way through a contingent of qunari. Once all the qunari were down, Elia led them toward a broad platform dominated by one of those large wolf statues that the elves were so fond of. The curved walls were decorated with elaborate frescoes and punctuated by veilfire torches, and they took a moment to get their bearings. 

Blackwall examined a short pillar inscribed with Elvhen writing, then turned to Lavellan. “Inquisitor, this might…” 

He trailed off as he caught sight of her. She’d sunk to her knees in front of one wall, her gaze fixed on the central figure in the painting: an elf wearing a wolf’s pelt, his hand outstretched with blue squiggly lines flowing onto the other elven figures’ faces.

Anxiety closed his throat for a moment. He rushed to her side and took her shoulders in his hands. “Elia! Are you hurt? What is it?” 

She slowly turned to face him, and his worry escalated into panic as he studied her face. It was completely leeched of colour, her eyes huge in the whiteness of her face, but her expression was completely devoid of emotion.

“It’s Fen’Harel. Removing the ancient elves’ vallaslin.” Her voice was utterly flat, almost like a Tranquil’s, and Blackwall realized with a surge of terror that the last time he saw her looking like this - like a dead-eyed shell of a ghost - was two years ago.

Slowly, as though in a dream, she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring Blackwall’s solicitous helping hand. Bull frowned worriedly as she continued to gaze at the wall. “I don’t know, Boss. Maybe he’s giving them the tattoos-”

“No,” she interrupted forcefully. She spun to face them, and Blackwall took an involuntary step back at her sudden ferocity. “He’s removing them. They’re slave markings, and he’s taking them away.” 

Her tone brooked no argument, and Blackwall’s gaze was drawn to the tattoos that graced her cheekbones. They stood out vividly in the unnatural pallor of her face, and she suddenly looked so forbidding and so uncharacteristically _enraged_ that he dropped his gaze. The mural must have revealed some esoteric piece of elven history that was striking her deep, but he couldn’t form the words to ask.

Bull was a braver man than he, and tried to speak up again. “Boss, what’s-”

“Let’s move on,” she said brusquely, and Bull fell silent. 

They finished their exploration of the ruins in dour near-silence. By the time they returned to the Winter Palace, Elia’s colour had returned and her aura no longer crackled with tension, but she ignored Blackwall’s gentle squeeze of her hand as Leliana came to meet them. 

Ellia was swept back into Council business for the rest of the evening, and Blackwall retired to their suite to wait anxiously for her return. When she arrived late that night, her face drawn with fatigue, he strode over and pulled her into his arms.

She returned his embrace, but her hug was loose and perfunctory, and she pulled away from him after a few short seconds. “Thom,” she said. “I’m so sorry, but can I… I need a moment alone. I’m so… my mind is just ready to burst. Do you mind if I just...”

She trailed off into silence, her head hung low as though in defeat. Blackwall took a deep breath that felt like knives sinking into his chest. “Of course,” he said gruffly. “Whatever you need. I’ll come back in an hour, maybe two…?” 

He meant to make it a statement, but it came out like a feeble question. He hated how scared he was that she’d say no, and he hated how relieved he was when she smiled and nodded her agreement. She gave him a quick kiss before he left, and he quietly closed the door behind himself. He hesitated, uncertain what to do on his own in this sprawling place. 

Then he heard a smothered sound from inside the suite. 

It was a raw, horrible sound of anguish, a faint but unmistakable cry of distress. Her scream was muffled in quality as though stifled by a pillow or a blanket, but her agony carried clearly through the door and set Blackwall’s nerves on fire. 

His heart pounded like a drum and set the blood throbbing in his ears. His hand was on the doorknob, and he was about to turn it and burst through the door, but the stinging memory of her heartfelt plea for _a moment alone_ stopped him. 

He listened carefully until he heard her moving around the room. Slightly assured that she was well enough to move, he sank down by the door to wait. 

Elia could have her time apart from him if that was what she wanted, but _he_ would never leave her side when she needed him the most.

***************  
He would never forget the look on Lavellan’s face when she heard _his_ name again.

The viddasala stared haughtily down her nose. “You would have died from the mark on your hand but for the help of one of his chief agents: Solas, agent of Fen’Harel.” 

“You must be joking,” Dorian blurted. Cole blinked his big vacant blue eyes and said nothing, but Blackwall’s breath seized in his chest as he turned to look at the Inquisitor. 

A horrible, shameful spike of jealousy impaled him as he took in her expression. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a feverish electric blue, and Blackwall realized that he’d never seen her look so damned _alive._

The viddasala stepped through the eluvian, and Elia spun on them. “We have to get to Solas first,” she snapped. “He’ll be able to stabilize my anchor.” 

It was a legitimate reason to rush and Blackwall prayed that she was right, but the logic of it didn’t quell the painful crushing of his chest at the zealous blaze of life in her eyes. 

She bolted through the eluvian in pursuit of the qunari, and it was all Blackwall and the others could do to keep up with her. She fought like she’d been possessed by a rage demon, flinging spell after spell at their qunari assailants and detonating her anchor every minute or so to send their eviscerated foes flying. Her face twisted in undisguised pain with every blast, but there was no chance to tell her to slow down or rest; the qunari were relentless, and they barely cut their way through one wave before the next appeared. 

Finally, with much effort and no small number of bruises, they defeated the saarebas. Without even saying a word, Elia ran toward the final eluvian.

Blackwall chased her and grabbed her arm before she could disappear. “Inquisitor, wait. I’m coming with you.” 

She turned to look at him, and her face was somehow both serene and fierce at once. “No,” she said firmly. “I need to confront him alone.” 

“Elia, please,” he begged. “Let me come. You’re injured, you’re… this is taking too much of a toll on you. It’s taken too much. I… I just want to protect you.” 

He watched her face in desperation, his heart in his mouth as he awaited her reply, and abruptly he realized that his request was about more than an eluvian. It was about more than just this moment. Blackwall had been her lover for a year, almost as long as she and Solas were together. He might be asking Elia to let him come through the eluvian, but what he really meant was _let me be the man who stands beside you._

 _Pick me,_ he thought desperately. _Choose me. Love me._

He held his breath as he waited, then exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut when she shook her head firmly. “I don’t need protection. Not from him,” she said. She gently pulled her arm from his fingers, then disappeared. 

Blackwall gazed numbly at the shifting surface of the inert eluvian. His mind was like bleached cotton, fuzzy and blank. 

Dorian gently rested a hand on his shoulder. “She’d be a fool to choose him over you, if it comes to that.” 

Blackwall couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe. He couldn’t bear to explain to Dorian that she’d already made her choice, so he nodded his head briefly in acknowledgement.

The longest hour of his life crawled by as they waited for the Inquisitor to return. When she finally stumbled back through the eluvian and fell to her knees, the vitality was gone from her face, and her left arm was gone from the elbow down. 

Cole instantly crouched at her side wringing his hands worriedly, and Dorian was utterly aghast. “Andraste’s fucking flaming tits, Lavellan, what _happened?_ ” He kneeled beside her and examined her arm. 

Blackwall crouched and cupped her precious face in his hands. “Are you all right?” he asked desperately. She wasn’t, of course she bloody wasn’t, but he didn’t know what else to say. 

Slowly she lifted her gaze to his and nodded silently, but her eyes were shining with sorrow. 

“The wound is clean. Completely healed,” Dorian reported. “I doubt she lost any blood.” 

“Does it hurt?” Blackwall asked stupidly, and Elia shook her head, but Cole interjected. “The pain is gone, but the agony remains. It pulses, pounds, pouring fresh and flowing. The wound never really healed.” 

Rage and jealousy and grief coiled together into an ugly knot in Blackwall’s belly. He stood and drew his sword. “I’m going to kill him,” he growled, and took a step toward the eluvian. 

Elia’s intact hand whipped out and latched onto his wrist. “No,” she snapped. “He’s gone. There’s no point. You couldn’t kill him even if you tried.” Shakily she pushed herself to her feet with Dorian’s assistance, then faced them all with her chin held high. “We have to save him from himself. We have to - _I_ have to…” She trailed off.

Blackwall’s anger melted into anguish as he watched her taking slow and measured breaths. Dorian was the first to break the tense silence. “What do you mean, we couldn’t kill him if we tried? What in the world _happened?_ ” 

She breathed in carefully through her nose and didn’t reply. They watched warily as she exhaled, then inhaled, then turned her back on them. 

Blackwall came around to face her. Gingerly he reached out and stroked her shoulder. “Elia…” 

Her face abruptly crumpled, and she buried her face in her one remaining hand and started to sob. 

Blackwall had never seen her cry. She hadn’t cried when Solas first left her. She hadn’t cried even when her silent pain was at its worst in the months after Solas’s departure. 

His shattered heart was beating out a death knell on the inside of his ribs, but he gathered her against his chest without hesitation. She hid her face against his breastplate and pressed her right hand over her mouth, but her palm wasn’t big enough to entrap the thin keen of distress that ripped from her throat.

Her sobbing was a frigid wind cutting through the bleak and icy landscape of his mind. He wanted to help her, wanted to wipe her pain away, but all he could do was hold her. 

Dorian squeezed her shoulder sympathetically and spoke to her in a brisk, encouraging tone, and Cole hovered around them like an anxious ghost, and Blackwall just stood there holding Lavellan’s despair in his arms. He couldn’t speak; if he spoke, he’d reveal how deeply _he_ was hurt, and he couldn’t do that to her. 

That was the moment that Blackwall realized he was trapped. He was bound to her sorrow, incapable of letting her fall to its clutches even at his own expense. Elia may never love him the way she loved Solas, but _he_ would never break her heart.

****************

Skyhold is quiet and largely empty now. A veritable diaspora followed the disbanding of the Inquisition, with the majority of their people returning to their families or leaving to find new work and new homes. 

Within days after the disbanding, her nightmares start.

At least, Blackwall thinks they’re nightmares; she doesn’t wake up screaming and she doesn’t seem afraid, but her face is crumpled with misery when he shakes her whimpering body awake. 

The dreams interrupt their slumber almost every night. On occasion she gasps _his_ name in her sleep, and Blackwall swallows back his pain; the preoccupation of her subconscious mind is not her fault, but Thom Rainier has a streak of pride that never completely went away, and Blackwall fights hard to keep that side of himself in check.

He loves Elia. He can’t let her go. So he wipes away her tears and hugs her close and prays that time will heal this wound. 

She spends her days trying to collect information about Fen’Harel and his plans. She sifts through books and tomes in the libraries, and she reads and re-reads every letter and every note that Solas left in the rotunda. She’s in constant communication with Cassandra and Leliana’s people via raven. Leliana’s best efforts haven’t yet borne any fruit about the movements of the Dread Wolf himself, so they’re forced to track the elves’ movements across Orlais and Ferelden by proxy. 

Blackwall joins her most days in her endeavours - ostensibly to help, but more honestly to keep an eye on her. She’s a combination of focused determination and vague inattention, spending incessant hours poring through century-old tomes in the library while forgetting entirely to eat or drink. 

One day when Blackwall brings a tray of cheese and dried fruit to the cobweb-ridden basement library, she looks up at him with a distracted frown. “I can’t believe there aren’t more older tomes down here. He loved his damned knowledge. I would have thought he’d keep his library better stocked.”

Blackwall frowns as he sets the tray down and sits by her side. “What do you mean, ‘his library’? I thought this place was an ancient elven…”

He trails off as a hammerblow of realization hits him. Of course Skyhold was Solas’s fucking castle. Of _course_ it was. Suddenly he feels like an utter fool for not realizing it when Elia first told them the entire sorry tale, and the guilty look on her face only makes his skin crawl all the more. 

He doesn’t ask why she didn’t tell him; he should have figured it out on his own. “We can’t stay here,” he blurts. “We need to leave.”

Her eyebrows jump with surprise at his vehemence, then she frowns defensively. “Why?” 

_Because this place is haunting you,_ Blackwall thinks. There are shadows under her eyes where her memories of _him_ reside. Her fucking nightmares are proof of this. But Elia is a creature of logic, and she won’t accept such an intangible reason.

“He knows we’re here,” he says. “Your efforts to track him will be easy to thwart from a known location. Better to work on the move. We’ll be less predictable that way. Besides, if you want to keep helping the Red Jennies, we’ve got to go where the big people are, haven’t we?” 

He offers this last with a gentle smile and a playful nudge to her shoulder, and although she smiles for what feels like the first time that day, she’s silent for a long time before replying. 

“But Skyhold is my home.” Her voice is quiet and forlorn, and it pierces his already-scarred heart. 

He pulls her close with an arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. “We’ll find a new home. We can go anywhere you want.” The _we_ in his proposal is non-negotiable; he may have been born and raised in the Free Marches, but he would follow Elia to Tevinter and back if he thought it would stave off the loneliness that hounds at her heels. 

It takes another two days before Elia finally agrees to leave Skyhold for good. The night before they leave, she goes to bed long before him, and when he finally joins her and finds her sleeping face calm and relaxed, he feels the warm glow of having done something right. 

In the middle of the night, Blackwall wakes up to find her gone. 

Panicked, he flings himself from the bed they share in the annex and rushes to the main castle in search of her. His thoughts scrabble anxiously like rats in a barrel. _She wouldn’t have left without me, she can’t have left me alone-_

He slows as he hears her voice emanating from the rotunda. His pounding heart jumps into his throat as he approaches the rounded room, and he can’t decide whether to be more panicked or relieved to find her alone. 

She’s barefoot and wearing only her shift, and her vacant gaze is fixed on the one unfinished panel on the wall: a rough sketch of a wolf. 

She’s talking quietly to herself. “Just come back,” she mutters. “We’ll work this out. You don’t have to hide from me.” 

Tears burn the back of his throat as he reaches out to her. “Elia,” he rasps. “Wake up.” He takes her hand gently. 

She spins on him, her lovely face creased with burning rage for a split second before she blinks and returns to herself. Instantly her face falls into a confused frown. “Thom? What’s…”

She trails off as she realizes where they are, and he watches in agony as she fights to keep her expression under control. He can tell she’s an inch away from crumbling, and the swollen ache in his throat tells him that he’s the same. 

“Come on. We might as well get moving,” he whispers. She swallows hard and nods, and he’s marginally comforted when she tightly wraps her arm around his waist as they leave her ex-lover’s chamber.

They leave the keep within the hour, and Skyhold is abandoned once more. Elia pulls her cowl up as they pass through the front gates and doesn’t look back, and for a moment, Blackwall wishes he was an omnipotent demigod so he could raze the ancient castle to the ground.

********************

Her spirits are lifted the farther they get from Skyhold, and Blackwall’s hopes rise along with her brightened mood.

They settle in Kirkwall in the estate that Varric bequeathed to her. They work together to repair and renovate, and Elia jokes that Vivienne’s decorating tips are coming in handy as they shop for curtains in the market. 

When Blackwall tentatively asks if she wants to return to her clan, she regretfully declines. “I can’t,” she explains softly. “Not after everything that we know. I’ll have to go eventually, to try and convince them not to join him, but… I can’t face them. Not yet.”

Blackwall supports her decision, but secretly he’s relieved. He doesn’t know what would become of _them_ if she decided to go back to the Lavellans, and he’s not ready to let her go just yet. He suspects he never will be. 

They travel often so she can do odd jobs for the Red Jennies. Blackwall accompanies her and visits the places where hope has run dry, giving comfort to those who are lost. Her nightmares abate, and with every peaceful night that passes, he relaxes a little bit more into the idyllic little life they’re building. 

They establish a comfortable routine of travel and domesticity. They play wicked grace with Varric and friends multiple times a week, and Elia adopts a pet nug from Leliana’s breeder. They continue in their quiet efforts against Fen’Harel, but Elia’s outlook in this endeavour is a healthy determination, and Blackwall is relieved. 

As the months go by, Blackwall realizes that he’s happier than he’s ever been. He never expected to have a life so peaceful and sweet, or to earn the affections of a beautiful and intelligent Dalish mage. He wakes sometimes at night with Elia tucked securely in his arms, and he wonders what he did to deserve such peace. 

It’s almost enough to forget the rare nights when she wakes up crying in the middle of the night, her maimed left arm stretched in the air as though to grasp at something intangible, if only she had a hand. 

On these rare nights, Blackwall holds her close and lets her sob against his chest. He understands only too well about the strangling grip of the past and the way it can clutch the sleeping mind, even when the waking one knows clearly what is true and right. He tells himself that dreams are only dreams, and that he is the man she chose to build a life with. But in the darkest depths of his heart, he knows the truth. 

Blackwall might be the man guarding her front and standing at her side, but Solas is still at her back, a whisper of a step behind her, with his insidious voice murmuring in her ear.

***********************

“I love you, you know,” she says. 

Blackwall gazes into her huge aquamarine eyes. “I know,” he replies softly. 

And he does. Elia Lavellan is a serious woman, and she would never lie about such a thing; she’s given him a piece of her heart when he never thought he’d have such a gift. But just because she isn’t lying does not make her words entirely true. 

Blackwall has loved Elia from afar for years, and he’s seen what her uninhibited love truly looks like. Whether she’ll admit it to herself or not, he knows her love for what it is: a fraction of a bigger whole that’s no longer hers to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr.](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) Feel free to come by and cry on me if you like...   
> ;;A;;


End file.
